Metempsychosis
by HUSHHUSHHUSH
Summary: Metempsychosis. Noun. Rebirth.  The world has started anew; all but one of the children have forgotten the game.   John needs a job; a person from his long-forgotten past reaches out; as do eight little hands.  What possibly could happen?
1. Brand New

_i know_

_'oh my god james is writing another one what the hell she can't even update one of them regularly' _

_gosh maybe i'm tired of writing such dramatic poop okay ):_

_naaah it's okay to complain_

_(i would just like it better if you would complain to me via leaving crit or reviews or anything okay! those things keep me writing; because with out them i feel like no-one is reading this crap and it's like WELL WHY AM I UPLOADING IT THEN sobs)_

_N E WAI_

_yeah this is probably going to be pretty short and much, much less dramatic/dark than routine_

_...maybe. idk apparently that's all i can write /shot_

_anyway, thank-you for reading!_

_reviews are amazing, just saying!_

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><p>He stood in line for the check-out, a few frozen dinners stacked in the cart; matched with milk, cereal, and a few grooming necessities.<p>

Smiling, he let his eyes wander along the tiles of the ceiling, tapping his fingers absentmindedly on the handle of the cark to a song he would never be able to name. It was catchy; absent of words, but the electronic tune struck a thread in his heart.

It felt like déjà vu, the song. The way he could swear he's heard it before; maybe in a movie, or perhaps it was in a commercial- somewhere. Yet he could never place it, or very well find it.

The cashier finished with the elderly couple ahead of him and he pushed his cart forward, knocking it against the counter slightly as he stopped to unload his groceries.

Cheerfully he chatted with her, laughing when she made a joke about how hungry he must be to have purchased so many Hungry Man meals. He handed her a coupon- one the store delightfully mailed to him, worth fifty dollars in discounts, just for being new to the town. The cashier made a crack about moving to such a small place and he replied with the fact it was much, much better than his previous homestead.

Packing up his sacks- He used the reusable bags; the environment was too important to just abuse plastics and paper by using the bags the stores provided- He gave the cashier a small wave and thank-you and went on his merry way, right to the parking lot and to his car.

The old blue thing's paint was peeling and the bumper stickers were long faded ('Honk for a cake to the face!' sun-bleached to 'K o a ke ace?') and the doors didn't lock, nor did the rear-passenger-side window roll down at all, but it ran. He could be thankful for that.

He opened up the backseat and shoved the bags inside, slamming the door after and opening the driver's side for himself, hopping in and starting the little Chevy Geo as soon as he had his ass planted.

It was a new town, and a new start. He grinned as he turned the radio up louder, a catchy beat piquing his interest as he pulled out of the parking lot and onto the main street. The college years were always the best years to make memories!

Memories, he was aware, were fleeting, of course; when age comes along, he was bound to forget his fair share, but in the meanwhile, might as well make as many as he could forget.

Though he's already forgotten one. Not that he really had a choice; his entire past was stolen from him- Reset, one could say.

Which was exactly what happened.

His entire life was reset. He wasn't aware in the least.

There were hints- Like how he had an odd inclination for salamanders and giving internet trolls 'a chance'- But they were fleeting, mere aspects of his personality he could claim as quirks.

He would find himself dwelling about things, things that surprise him every time they enter his mind. Aliens; the possibility of them existing, a poorly-drawn yet still hilarious comic he could never name to save his life, names of people that would pop into his mind one minute and disappear the next.

John would shrug it off, for the most part.

The imagination was a powerful thing.


	2. Waiting Game

oh wow look at how quickly i updated this

as usual, my story starts out sloooowwwwwww

stick with me though i swear to god it gets better

and yes

did i just name a cat karla, give it the nickname kar, another nickname of beep-beep-meow, all for the sake of having a karkitty?

yes. yes i did.

fuq da popo i do what i want

again, reviewsssssssSSSssSsss

i love them

i need them

please?

heart heart heart

- HUSH/James/Kyla/Kay

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><p>Curled up on the couch with a phone and a cat, John's eyes were glued to the TV screen; the flickering pixels flashing images of Nicolas Cage kicking some righteous ass.<p>

His cat- Karla, whom he usually just called 'Kar' for short (or beep-beep-meow when he's feeling onery)- stretched and knocked the phone out of his lap, sending him into a small flurry.

Daming the Kar-kitty, he bent awkwardly and reached for the fallen phone, having to use his fingertips to inch it closer to himself before finally grabbing it up. He thanked God for rubber buttons and their ability to grip and placed it back in his lap after flipping through the 'recent calls' menu.

No missed, no received calls.

He frowned.

For months he had been searching for a job- The one he had when coming to the new town ended up burying itself into quick debt, forcing it to fire a good chunk of its employees. John being one of them, on account of his greenness, was sent home with a last check and a good review for his resumé.

Needless to say, he ran out of money pretty fast.

His rent was late and so was his electricity- He had at least paid his water bill, after a good day or two of debate with himself about which held the most importance. He had finally decided that water was most important when living, and if he needed food, he could always put McDonald's on a credit card. Besides, who would hire a dirty, smelly guy? Showers were probably one of the key factors in being an employable human being. His phone bill- Thanks to his late father- Was completely taken care of. In fact, it was once his dad's; it still held the wear-and-tear marks from the insides of his pockets and hands.

Sometimes thinking about that made John sad, but usually he would turn the sadness into a more sober kind of joy. It was a way of remembering his father; just like making (and not eating) cake and the occassional smoke (though he couldn't ever find himself smoking from a pipe, the few cigarettes he'd smoke still brought him back to the way he dad smelled coming home from work).

Looking for job interviews was starting to get really difficult. Some businesses turned him down right on the spot. Humiliating, but it made the whole deal faster.

He was starting to get desperate. Going-back-to-where-he-worked-in-high-school desperate.

He pursed his lips.

Well... His job in high school wasn't quite that bad.

Scooting Kar off his lap, he sat up and leaned for his laptop, taking it from the coffee table and setting it in Karla's place on his thighs.

Opening it, he spent the minute waiting for it to boot up thinking of ways to format his ad.

He licked his lips and popped open a brower window and went straight to .

As a last-ditch effort, he was going to advertise himself. Reach out completely to jobs; shove all his skills into one little page and hope and pray that at least someone would choose him.

In his teenage years, John lived in a very close-knit neighbourhood. A few of his neighbours had kids, and also wanted frequent time spent away from said kids. That was where John would step in. Baby-sitting, though generally associated with the 'fairer' sex, came very easily to John. His cheery, prankster nature drew kids straight to him- and it helped he was good with them, too.

So working as a baby-sitter, or even a nanny (he honestly would not turn down a live-in nannying job, not after living in his dinky, disgusting, hole of an apartment for three months) wouldn't be too bad. Maybe a little embarrassing, since it wasn't exactly the 'manliest' of jobs, but he could be pretty content with it.

After typing all the details he could think of (plus a few that hinted at an option for other services- 'i'm pretty good with paperwork, too! and dishes! basically if you have anything for me to do i'm open!'), he hit the 'publish' button and sent it into the far reaches of the internet forever.

And then proceeded to obsessively check his e-mail for the next five-to-six hours until he finally, finally got a reply.

His hands cluthed the sides of his laptop, knuckles made white as he skimmed the text with excitement, so fucking glad he finally got a hit, this could be a big break for him!

The red text called out to him, plainly stating their situation and their need for help- 'and if you could clean up the joint i guess that would be pretty sweet'- Maid-work, apparently, a near-requirement.

John replied after a few minutes of waiting. He didn't want to actually seem desperate- or, at least, not too desperate. That could deter his maybe-employer and that was one thing he really, really did not want.

Once the reply was sent, which included a few more details and contact information, he sat back and repeated the check-e-mail-every-ten-seconds cycle.

An hour passed.

Then two.

Followed by three.

Continued by four and John was getting tired.

After five hours, it was clear the guy wasn't going to reply until at least the next day- much to John's disappointment.

He wanted to know if he had the job right then and there. In fact, he would be pretty damn happy with starting the job at that exact moment.

Yet the guy seemed to enjoy keeping John on his toes. At least, that's what John hoped was the case; that it wasn't just a rejection via ignoring him for the rest of time.

Closing his eyes, he leaned back and rubbed at his face. He would go to bed and check his e-mail in the morning; waiting up all night just to see if he got the job or not wasn't going to do him any good.

He shut the laptop and slid it back onto the coffee table where it had been before, standing up and picking Karla back up before heading to the bed that was shoved six feet away in the corner. Not bothering with flipping off the TV, which was playing some incessant infomercial, he took off his glasses and set them on the box makeshit-bedside table. Climbing under the covers, he patted the spot next to him for the cat and unplug the tall lamp standing next to him.

Throwing an arm over his eyes, he absentmindedly stroked the soft fur of Kar and soothed himself to sleep with thoughts of regaining a stable life with an actual income.


	3. Red Letterman's Jacket

**james writes a realistically sized chapter 2k12**

**aNYWAY yeah so some of the plot is revealed! yay!**

**and more characters what a joy**

**and i am definitely changing the title to something less... meta. so don't be surprised if it gets a facelift.**

**i'm having an internal feud about this**

**on one hand, to please the readers, i want to switch perspectives and get into dave's head to show you guys what is going on. **

**on the other hand, to prove that i'm a good authour, i want to try to get all of that across without changing viewpoints. **

**UGH. DECISIONS.**

**so, you know, if you have anything to say about that, go ahead and you know... leave a comment or somethin' somethin' **

**wonks *winks**

**edit: also there are errors in here i just realised this whoops i'll fix that later**

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><p>The café wasn't crowded, nor vacant; it held just the few lingering people it was intended, a perfect fit.<p>

Chewing on the dry, dead skin of his chapped lips (he was always meaning to pick up some chapstick- but he knew as soon as he had his hands on some, he would just lose it in the wash or down a drainage grate or maybe even on the floor of someone else's house) he kept himself in high spirits, forcing himself to be patient as he waited for his maybe-perhaps-employer.

His dad, always with his safety in mind, had forewarned John to meet strangers in a public place: "if you're ever meeting a stranger from the internet, it's always best to meet in a place where, if they decided to try something potentially unsavory, someone could get you help". Good ol' Dad, always watching out for him.

He- Dad, that is- had gotten so much more protective over John after that little out-and-coming bit of transcendance came over the bed-headed boy.

High school, sometime in the twenty-first century (who would've thunk, maths would've aided in that tidbit!), John had a girlfriend. That girlfriend was sweet- around John. Around others, not-so-much. But he didn't mind; all that mattered was he made her happy and she, he. Then John met her very-best-if-not-only friend.

Her gay friend, of course. John, never really leaning towards anything of the homophobic nature, was still surprised about how well they hit it off. When he and his girlfriend broke up, he hardly minded; John and the gay-best-friend stayed close, laughing off all of her angry text messages and mocking her weird fascination with a certain number and aracnid.

Then, one day, they kissed. And John didn't mind it at all. In fact, he found he liked it.

Sitting in the little café, John span the little cardboard hand-guard around his cup of vanilla-mocha-with-a-shot-or-two-of-blueberry. He thought back to that kiss- the very one who brought about a slightly different side in his father. He didn't ever imagine that his Dad would change in such a way, just for John's new-found sexuality; in a way, it hurt. In another, it made no difference. Dads will be Dads, after all.

He tongued at the side of his cheek, taking a quick glance down at his old Ghostbusters watch.

Twenty-seven minutes late.

Letting a bit of frustration and impatience seep in, he blew a stray lock of his nearly-pitch black hair from his eyes. He needed it cut. The mess he called hair was getting long, again; how would he work well if he was constantly having to brush it out of the way? Slightly, he frowned; a small bit of concern leaking into his system as he carried on with the thought- Dropping children into a pot of boiling water instead of their high-chair, all because a chunk of hair was in the way of him identifying which was which.

A light _ding_ turned him back to real-life as someone entered the café, a shock of a red lettermen's jacket and dark sunglasses and too-blond hair sauntered up to the counter, ordering something in a voice John couldn't quite make out because of the music playing behind him- some college kid had decided to play their music way too loud for their headphones- and then the guy looked around.

Looking down at the print-out of the e-mails he had brought, John didn't know what to do next. Should he wave? Shout out the guy's e-mail address? He had said his name in one of their first few messages, but John didn't remember it and it would take too long to find- red was kind of a hard font colour to really read for very long, and he had been pouring over them multiple times for the past week.

The guy took another scope and locked his gaze onto a guy a few tables away from John- a hipster of the ironic-types, with a Ghostbusters-themed bag and some-Zodiac-sign beanie (man was John jealous of that bag).

Much to John's disappointment, the blazingly-red guy walked to the hipster-dude and tapped him on the shoulder, striking up a conversation.

Crap. Looks like John would have to wait another twenty-seven minutes.

In the meantime, he figured he would re-re-re-(re, re, re)read the e-mails to find the guy's name; in an effort to actually be more familiar with the title and to escape from his own diminishing hopes.

He was about to the paragraph where the name was finally revealed (holy shit was this hard to read when the guy didn't use punctuation) when there was a light tapping on his cup, the now-empty container making a hollowed _tonk, tonk, tonk._

Looking up, he was nearly blinded (further) by the bright-red jacket, the colour nearly matching the text he had been reading previously.

Oh. Maybe this was his guy, then.

John smiled up at him- trying hard not to let his teeth show too much; didn't want to embarrass himself by flaunting his buck-toothed grin in their first meeting.

"John Egbert," it wasn't even a question. This guy- Dave, John finally remembered; Dave Stuart or something- smiled slightly, sitting himself down across from John, slipping his jacket from his shoulders, letting it fall to a heap behind his butt in the chair. "I guess I should apologise for my lateness, huh."

John wanted to tell him that yes, yes he should; he was- John looked at his watch again- thirty-three minutes late. But he kept his mouth shut. Being a smarmy smart-mouth wouldn't get him any where if he wanted the job- especially if it was one that dealt with kids.

"No, no, it's fine," he assured, sliding his cup to the side; the e-mails, too. "I was late, myself, anyway." He wasn't, but again; had to look good for the hopefully-oh-please-please-be-future boss, right?

"Right," Dave replied, using a tone that suggested he might know John was lying- but how the hell could he know that? Smirking slightly, he leaned back and folded his hands over his stomach as the barista came over and set down his drink; something chilled and blended, condensation already forming on the outside of the clear container. "I had thought that guy over there was you-" he motioned to the hipster John had seen him talk to, "-but when he looked up, it was pretty clear it wasn't." He leaned forward and took a drink, nearly missing the straw, but managing to slip it into his mouth after a brief chuckle. "His eyes weren't blue enough."

John felt a little uncomfortable at this. How did Dave know he had blue eyes? Shifting a bit, he slipped through a few of the printed e-mails, trying to find the one where he had described himself for Dave to find in the café- too flustered to remember if he had said anything about his eye colour.

Dave laughed again. "You squirm easily. Anyway, about the job," he leaned back again, into a similar position that he had held before. "It'll pretty much be a twenty-four-seven sort of thing. If you end up taking it, I'd prefer if you lived in with us. You can have days off, but only when I can get my sister to watch the little ass- kids. The kids. I'll be home on Mondays through Wednesdays so I can handle them mostly on my own, but there's some shi-stuff I can't really deal with."

Nodding along, John went back through Dave's situation in his mind. Four kids dumped into his lap thanks to shitty parenting and some other vague statements- all around the same age, only a few months apart- his brother had put him in the situation somehow- it was all confusing, a bit suspicious, but the need for help was altogether understandable. This guy, with the way he was struggling even in a semi-professional setting not to swear all over the place, was stuck with kids. Little people to _raise _and make into big people with a Great Future Ahead of Them.

"Yeah, and uh, I guess if you'd like I could show you the house," house? Houses cost Big Money. This guy, sitting in front of him, had an entire house? Sitting up a bit straighter, John looked at Dave- actually _looked_ at him, trying to discern any proof that he had any sort of cash. He was wearing a plain white t-shirt with a small little print of a poorly drawn character donned in red. John squinted. So this guy was a Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff fan or something? "You know," Dave said, breaking the small bit of silence. "Just in case you're curious to see where you'd be living. If you accepted the offer."

Wait. Wasn't that stupid-comic-turned-movie written by some guy named Dave? Or was it actually like, Devin, or Daphene, or something else with a D?

"John?"

Right, right. He was having a conversation. Quickly, he nodded, slouching forward again to rest his chin on his hand and his elbow on the table. "Yeah, yeah; that'd be great!"

"Sweet. I'll drive you there, then."

And then they were up and outside, John with his papers tucked under an arm and Dave sipping at his icy drink while walking across an equally icy parking lot. He lead them to a little beat-up red thing; a very boxy little Volvo that was missing its back bumper and had more than a dozen little decals up and down the back. He unlocked the passenger door first, slipping in and reaching to unlock the driver's manually, flicking the little rod up. He got out and sat himself in his proper seat, slamming his door shut right after John hopped in and shut his own.

Dave reached into the glove compartment, the thing already open between John's legs (and this guy has a _house?_) pulling out a cigarette and lighter, lighting it, and tossing the lighter straight back where it was.

Well that's not very healthy. John crinkled his nose and looked away as Dave took a deep drag, holding the ashed thing out the slender opening of the window and started the car.

"Sorry," he apologised, probably getting a good feel that John wasn't the biggest fan of smoking. "Can't really do this around the kids."

Pulling out of the space, he sent them off, nearly all the way across town and John was all of a sudden understanding how Dave was late.

The little house (and by 'little', he means 'I could fit twenty of my apartments in it'), sat alone in, when compared to the city they just left, the middle of no-where. It was a sprawling property, with trees and grasses for days, even a pond from what John could see.

"Wow," he sighed, putting a hand to the window as they rolled up to the garage, "wow."

Dave let out a light laugh next to him, putting the car in park and pulling the emergancy brake. "I'd ask you if you wanted the job now, but then it'd be pretty clear that I'm full of myself."

They stepped out of the car and John let out a low whistle, hands in his pockets. "Well then," he started, walking around the car to Dave's side. "I guess I won't have to worry about whether or not you'd be able to pay me, huh?" He grinned, forgetting about his teeth and letting them stand out in all their glory.

"Does that make it a y- Oh fuck me in the ass."

John shot Dave a look of 'what the fuck are you saying what the fuck is this'. What sort of thing to say was that? He opened his mouth to give some sort of reply but Dave was off running, unbuttoned letterman flapping behind him as he ran towards a tree, shouting something incomprehensible.

John was confused. Very, very confused. Hesitantly, he started to follow Dave; keeping his pace with that of a brisk walk, only really trying to make out what the fuck this guy was doing.

There was a kid in the tree- most likely one of the kids he'd be watching, if he took the job. His hair colour was close to that of Dave's, but a few shades darker; his little arms wrapped around the trunk of the tree, his legs dangling around a branch. His triangular shades were askew; pushed to the side as he mashed his face to the tree. Another boy, this one with a shock of dark hair and rectangular glasses much like John's own, stood under the tree, hands on his hips.

Dave was next to him, looking up at the child who seemed to be stuck in the tree.

"This is just a bunch of malarkey," the kid on the ground grumbled, his khaki shorts not doing much to hide the goosepimples that rose on his legs, "he can get down. I'm sure of it!"

Dave just sighed and patted him on the shoulder, looking up at the other boy with a flat look. "If you got your little toosh up there, you can get it down."

From the tree, a few leaves rustled as a little leg stretched down to the branch below it. "I'm not too well-met with this uhm," the child's voice was meticulous and planned-out; the vocabularly clearly meant to be beyond his years, "...activity." He came down a few feet, clutching onto little twigs as if they held his life in their fiberous beings. "I'm done falling, now, so if you would do me the favour of leaving, I'd be pretty thankful." So he had fallen, that's what prompted Dave to full-out sprint over there.

John watched as Dave ran a hand through his hair and let out a breath, catching white in the too-cold air. "Yeah, well, hurry up, then. It's balls cold out here." With that, he turned and walked back towards John, hands buried in the pockets of his jacket. "Want to go inside?"

In the midst of blowing warm air onto his hands, John blinked up at Dave, lips still pursed. "You're just going to... leave them out here?" Slowly, he slipped his hands back into his pockets. "What about the one in the tree?"

Dave shrugged. "This happens. Dirk's a big boy. Aren't you, Dirk?" He threw the last bit over his shoulder, to 'the one in the tree'.

"Well, that depends on what you're com-"

"No, none of your smart-ass wise-shit." Dave interrupted, the words more playful than tired or snippy as they appeared to be.

"Yes. Yes I am a big boy." The kid- Dirk- slipped down another few branches and then finally, onto the ground.

Dave grinned and lifted a shivering hand towards the house. "Great. Now go inside. Both of you shitheads. It's goddamn freezing out here." After a little pushing and shoving, they ran off in that direction, towards warmth. "It's a fucking ice storm out here," he muttered, turning to face John once again.

John nodded, scrunching up his shoulders in order to conserve a little heat. "Yeah," he watched the two boys disappear through a door of the house, little boots ditched onto the porch. "I think I will work here." It came out quieter than he wanted; quiet enough Dave had to have John repeat himself.

"Really?" His voice, holding both the hints of a southern drawl and a permanent sarcastic tone, lit up with the soft shadow of excitement. "When do you- Ah, do you want to sign all the shit now? Fuck, I didn't even clean out a room yet- how long do you want to wait?"

Letting out a light laugh, John held up a hand. "Calm down, I'll do all of that when you're ready," he looked back at the house- even though it was much bigger than anything he was used to, even his childhood home; it still held a quaintness about it. "I guess for now I'll just pack and wait for the phone call, huh?" And he laughed again.

Dave laughed, too. It had an odd ring to it, though; an almost melancholic feel, matched with another underlying sound of the utmost joy. And it was familiar.

Chatting about what lie ahead, they walked towards the house themselves, not minding the light dusting of snow coming from the overcast sky.


End file.
